A Dream Come True
by Gadjo
Summary: Harry Potter was the Hero who had it all... except anyone to care that he was dying. Awaiting death, he decides he doesn't want to be alone any longer.


**A Dream Come True**

**By Gadjo**

**Part 1**

**June 23,**

**Early Evening**

_Impalement. Starvation. Hanging. Starvation. Crucio. Starvation. Blood Loss – um... Isn't that called Saunguation or something? Starvation. AARRGGH!"_

Dropping his head back onto his bed in frustration, the painfully thin boy starred at his ceiling. Lifting a stick-like arm, the child ignored the bold black and blue bruises that stood out so glaringly against his too pale skin but couldn't resist rubbing absently at the small cuts and scrapes that surrounded his eyes.

"Great move, Vernon. Crush my glasses so that I'm as good as blind and THEN tell me to clean the house. It's a great, big, BLOODY SHOCK that I ran into something. I'm NEARLY BLIND! What do you expect? Did you think I wore those ugly glasses because I liked them?" Picking at a particularly large scab than ran from just below his eyebrow all the way into his hairline, the young boy marveled that he hadn't been blinded permanently when his glasses had been smashed into his face. Well aware that it would likely be hours before his door was unlocked, and not wanting to spend the time with painfully salty tears drying into his wounds, the child went back to trying to distract himself.

"Okay, ways that I would kill my relatives: Starvation. Shock from meeting Moaning Myrtle. Starvation. Trampled by hippogryphs. Starvation. Talked to death by Professor Binn. Starvation. Shot with a Muggle gun. Poisoned... though that might actually interfere with the starvation since I would have to FEED them the poison. Given to Norbert. Oh yea, fed to FLUFFY." Smiling, the boy ignored the pull of his split and bloody lips as he imagined feeding the bodies of his relatives to the giant multi-head dog named Fluffy. "It would be perfect. He has three heads; there are three of them. Perfect." Lightened by the idea, the youth allowed the image to carry him into an exhausted sleep.

**June 29, **

**Early Morning**

Staring at the letter in his hand, the frail body of a so-called "Savior" didn't even have energy left to cry.

_**Only safe with your family... no contact with anyone... expect no gifts or contacts... No leaving the house for any reason...friends are safer with their own families...too busy... keeping Hedwig at Hogwarts... for your own good... no contact... stay there until September 1... Will thank me some day...**_

Staring at the letter didn't seem to make it change. It didn't suddenly turn into a teasing joke from the Twins. It didn't even turn into an elaborately cruel joke from Malfoy. There wasn't even a hint that they were remotely thinking about him. He was being abandoned. They had let him save Ginny's life, face a Basilisk, and actually FIGHT THE DARK LORD VOLDEMORT, and now they were just ignoring him because he wasn't needed. They didn't want to put up with him when they could just as easily pawn him off on his 'relatives'.

Wadding the letter into a ball, and the ball into a tighter and tighter ball, he threw it as hard as possible at the window, only to sigh as it bounced uselessly off the glass and rolled beneath his desk. _It should be safe there. No one will know it's there. It can just stay right there to remind me never to trust people who are 'good guys'._

Blinking back tears of angry frustration, he turned and carefully wobbled his way back across the room. His hands were shaking. His left leg could barely hold his weight. His vision was still blurry, though oddly better than it had seemed to be when his glasses first broke. As he finally settled himself cautiously onto his bed, he wondered who had cursed him to spend the rest of his life being miserable.

He had always known that he was just a tool. As a small child, he was a slave, a punching bag, and a freak. He cleaned, cooked, and obeyed. He didn't fight back more than was necessary for his family to enjoy 'breaking' him. He accepted their insults and rebukes. He cried when he knew they wanted proof of his suffering. He was stoically silent when they simply wanted to beat him and scream insults. He was their tool and toy. And, he had learned quickly to fill his role perfectly.

When he had learned about the Wizarding World, he had thought that he would finally be free to be whoever he wanted to be. He quickly realized, though, that he, again, was being cast in a role he couldn't fight. He was again being used as tool. A different kind of tool, but a tool all the same. Instead of a slave and toy, he was now to be a hero and icon. He had to be cheerful and good. He had to be Light and innocent. He had to show everyone that the little orphan could defeat the big evil villain and save them all.

He was a little tin soldier. He was trotted out for pictures and parades. He was led into orchestrated battles designed to show how brave and wonderful he was. And, like all little toys, he was stuck in a dark box when he wasn't wanted. He was ignored; forgotten until his owner decided to show him off once again.

Gingerly turning onto his back, the boy took slow meditative breaths until the pain passed. _A broken ankle from Dudley 's boot. A few cracked ribs thanks to Vernon 's fists, and at least one of them did something to my lungs considering I can't take a deep breath without pain. My left arm is bruised from where Petunia grabbed it. At least two fingers are broken from being slammed in the cabinet door. Right shoulder swollen and tender from Dudley slamming me into the wall. No glasses. Nose probably broken by Petunia intentionally opening a door in my face._ Moaning piteously, the boy stared at the wall and considered his life.

_I can accept being a toy... but why can't I at least be one that's actually wanted._

**July 30,**

**Middle of the Night**

Blinking slowly, the action taking every ounce of energy, the boy let out a slow breath. Every movement clearly painful, the small form laid limply upon his bed as though no more than a puppet whose strings had suddenly been cut.

_I wonder if anyone will notice that I'm dead?_

_The pathetic Weasel family wont care until little Ronnikins wants to get his name in the spotlight again and starts looking for me to be his 'best friend' cum meal ticket. Granger won't notice until she wants to lecture someone and Ron won't stand still and listen to her useless ramblings. They both claim to be my 'best friends'. _

_We are the perfect little 'Golden Trio'. But I know that, if I suddenly lost my fame and fortune, Ron wouldn't even look at me. Hermione only cares about having an audience to 'teach'. If I hadn't realized early on that I needed to have 'sidekicks' to keep from being accused of 'attention seeking' I'd have never even looked at either of them. But, now I'm a perfect little poster boy. I am the orphaned, half-blood savior who is best friends with a Pureblood boy and a Muggle-born girl. _

_Dumbledore won't care until he's ready to start my next 'test'. Really, how dumb does he think I am? Hiding a 'rare' and 'priceless' artifact where three brainless first years could get to it, and then destroying it after we save it. Being "unable" to find out about a creature that not only a second year could recognize, but also had already been faced years ago. Each test was obviously set up to see what I would do. And, like a good little soldier, I marched out to save the day every time._

_I know my useless Muggle relative won't care except to complain that I died in my room on purpose. I can already hear them whining because I didn't have the decency to at least dig a hole for them to bury me in. Or maybe they'd have preferred it if I just climbed into the waste basket and let them throw me out with the rest of the garbage. _

Thinking about his miserable life, the frail child thought back to the person who had caused every negative moment in his life. Dumbledore may have cause every torturous moment of the last 13 years, but it was Voldemort who let Dumbledore have him. No Voldemort would mean no dead parents. No dead parents would mean no Dumbledore leaving him on a doorstep. No being left on a doorstep would mean no ending up lying on a pile of rags masquerading as a bed while waiting to die. Therefore, every moment of pain and suffering he had endured was directly linked to Voldemort.

_Why did he kill my parents? Everyone seemed to be expecting the attack. They were in hiding and everything. There must have been hundreds of people he could have attacked that would have been easier to get to than my parents were. Why did he specifically hunt them down? What was so special about them that he thought that they had to die? Or, was he just mad. Was he just killing everyone in some insane list of victims and my parents were just the next names in line?_

_Tom didn't seem crazy. Voldie, hiding in the back of Professor Stu-stu-stutterer's head was certainly as mad as a hatter. However, I might have gone crazy too if I had to constantly listen to that stuttering. But, Tom didn't seem crazy._

_Tom, who looked way too much like me, seemed angry; but I would be too if I suddenly met the person I knew would kill me in the future. He seemed sarcastic, but he wasn't cruel about it. He was what I wish I could be. Obviously smart, he didn't need to flaunt it because it was obvious with every word he said. He dressed elegantly, even the old robes his ghostly form wore were clearly well made and tailored for him, but I'd bet he could wear the rags I have and still never look like the pathetic waif I know I am. His eyes were what really got my attention though, they were so commanding. Just looking at him, I could understand why people would want to follow and obey him. He seemed so confident, so sure that he was right. However, unlike the fragile mask I wear as the Boy-Who-Lived, he truly believed that he was right. He was everything I am supposed to be. _

_Would he have missed me? Would the boy who grew up to kill my parents and try to kill me, miss me? I know that I miss him. Not Voldie, he was a mad psychopath. But Tom, Tom was just like me. And that alone is proof that the Muggles are at least partially right when they call me a "crazy little freak". I am little; an eternal reminder of the care my family gave me in the form of starvation. Since only person I have ever really felt was able to understand me would be just as happy to have my head delivered to him on a silver platter, I'm pretty sure a safe argument could be made for the crazy part. And, after the unnaturalness of my being a parselmouth, I've no doubt that most people would agree with the 'freak' label too. _

Biting his lip as the next wave of lancing pain rushed across his hip and up into his back, the boy gave a grimace at the feel of even more fresh blood dripping down his chin and adding yet another stain to the already blood coated rag covering his emaciated body. Desperately, his tongue slips out to try and catch what little moisture he can from his blood. The last few days, living on only the dirty water that his relatives had left, had finally succeeded in weakened him too the point that even simple movement was exhausting.

_Wish I could say 'bye' to Tom. He was so much like me. I wonder if I would have grown up and gone insane too. Maybe it's a good thing that I'm going to die now. I can't make the Muggles miserable if I'm dead. I can't make the Weasel jealous if I'm dead. I can't make Snape remember how horrible my father was if I'm dead. I certainly can't be expected to kill Tom's future-self if I'm dead. I can't grow up to kill innocents if I'm dead. I can't make anyone else live a life as hellish as mine if I'm dead. Yea, it's probably a good thing that I'm going to die now, before I can prove to them all that they were right all along and I DO deserve to be treated like a rabid animal that needs to be caged and beaten._

_Still, I wish I could say 'good bye' to Tom. He would have understood why I'm not even trying to fight anymore. He'd have understood that eventually you just have to either kill or be killed. I'm too weak to kill and, even if I did, I'd just end up in Azkaban. Good little "Saviors" may be loved when they still have to kill the bad guy but I have no allusions about what will happen, after my 'great victory' is over. I may kill the bad guy, but I'll still have to kill and killers are sent to prison. If I can't and won't be the killer, then all that's left is for me to be the one killed._

_Dumb- BLOODY- Phoenix ! If it weren't for that bird watching me, I could have really talked to Tom down in the chamber. Dumb bird following me and watching from behind a stature… can't help too early now… have to let the little hero fight the valiant fight before winging in and saving the day. Bloody Flaming Peacock! If only he hadn't been watching I might have actually been able to talk with someone who would have understood me._

Closing his eyes, the boy began to remember how his opponent in the Chamber had looked. Instead of as an enemy, though, the boy created him as an ally. He pictured his friend Tom standing in his room with him. Carefully, he constructed the other boy's image as clearly as he could remember it. His styled hair, his pale skin, even his Slytherin house patch was perfectly recreated. Soon an exact replica of his wished for friend stood before his mind's eye.

Unlike in the past, though, the boy did not stop at merely a flat image. Focusing all of his will power – something that all of the starvation and neglect he had endured had only served to strengthen- he worked to make his image as 'real' as possible. Dark eyes that seemed to laugh at everyone they saw. A smirking mouth turned up just enough to almost be mistaken for a smile. Elegant hands with long fingers peeking out of the ends of perfectly sown sleeves. Well-shined shoes show beneath an expertly hemmed robe. Every visible inch of the other boy's image was given due concentration until an exact 3-Dimensional form hovered behind the boys eyes.

Studying the image from every angle, the boy could find nothing wrong with his friends form. It was a perfect. _I want him to be more than just an image in my head though. I want to look at my friend with my eyes open. I want to have the one person who could have really cared and understood me beside me. I want to have someone with me. I don't want to die alone._

Drawing on every bit of magic he possessed, the boy began to make his friend real.

**Part 2**

**July 30, **

**Middle of the Night**

**(Same as the last section)**

Somehow aware, yet still without a physical form of any kind, the essence of what was once Tom Marvolo Riddle, later known as the Evil Dark Lord Voldemort, felt himself float effortlessly across an open field. Patiently conserving what little energy he had, the being simply floating absently as he contemplated his life.

_Why am I still here? My grand dreams and schemes fell apart years ago and the idiots who used to follow me were really too dumb to have understood my vision anyway._

Feeling a leaf float through what should have been his stomach, the bored mass of awareness wondered if it had the right idea. _Maybe I should just float away too. Maybe I should just relax and let myself dissolve into the nothingness of the cosmos. _

_Would anyone even notice? Dumbledore and his Gang of the Firey Pigeons won't notice until people start realizing that the Supreme Mugwump is getting a bit too big headed and I'm not around to be used as a distraction and scapegoat. I don't have any family left and, even if I did, they wouldn't want me any more than my abandoning father did. At least he KNEW why I was different; he knew and he still left me in that torturous prison for children. I'm better off without a family, all they do is abandon you or betray you._

_I don't really have any friends either. Sure, Lucious used to be my friend but he started to ignore me after a while. Severus was my friend. No matter how I acted or what I did, I always knew that he would stand beside me. Sure, he played the spy for Dumb-Dumbles but he never attempted to hide that from me. He believed in the ideals I preached, but he wanted nothing to do with the, as he so elegantly put it, 'carnage' of raids. He never tried to hide the fact that he wanted to survive this war and wasn't above playing both sides if necessary. I actually think that that was part of why I liked him. He was willing to argue and talk back to me. Of course, that didn't stop me from Crusio'ing him in public, but I had an image to uphold and he understood that. Now, though, he has a new life. He has a good job, powerful allies, and seems to be content with his life; he has no room left for me. The only person likely to realize that I'm gone is the child destined to destroy me._

Letting the pull of gravity slip away, the essence of a once promising Head Boy rose easily above the tree and rooftops. Slowly, he began to move southward. He didn't really care where he went but, strangely, he could feel an odd pull to go faster and more directly. Directly where he couldn't say, but he could clearly feel that a specific destination was waiting for him. Letting the feeling pull him as it wished, he let his thoughts wander to the boy bound to him in so many ways.

_Harry Boy-Who-Wouldn't-Bloody-Die Potter, the bane of his existence and the one person he had met whom most seemed to honestly understand him. The boy who shared far more in common with him than either of them wanted to consider. _

_Bloody Nosey Phoenix ! If it hadn't been watching us in the Chamber, I know that Potter would have answered my questions differently. I saw the way he would get a scheming glint in his eyes, freeze as if he remembered he was being watched, and spout off some useless rhetoric. I know he was just acting because of our feather-headed watcher. As sure as Severus' hair isn't greasy, that boy was just playing the part of boy hero and not believing a word that was coming out of his mouth. _

_He is so much like me. Not just in looks, though we do share our dark hair and too pale skin. We share traits that are more important than superficial similarities. We are both parseltongues; Slytherin's noble gift gives us both a chance to learn about a world no others can ever understand. We have both lost parents, though mine were thru choice and his thru force. We are both thin and frail of build; I'll bet he doesn't know that I played Seeker too. It is his eyes, though, that really let me know how alike we are. They were so weary, as though they had already seen it all and declared it all pointless. They were the tired eyes of someone who had nothing to lose, everything to gain, and still accepted that the struggle was worthless. I had those eyes while I was in the orphanage. I had those eyes when I realized that I- A HALF BLOOD- was placed in Slytherin. I learned to don my mask of superiority to keep others from getting too close and asking me too many questions. Harry chose to don the opposite mask. He seems so open and innocent, eager to please and naive concerning deceit. We each wore a mask to hide our souls and no one ever thought to look closer at either of us._

Hearing a dog suddenly begin barking, the incorporeal Lord returned his attention to his surroundings. _Oh joy, a Muggle community. Perfect little cookie-cutter homes. Each house is, no doubt, kept at the peak Muggle perfection; and so lifeless no wizard worth his wand would pay a galleon for the lot of them._

Feeling the pull continue to move him forward, he looks at his apparent destination. A simple two-story home, it has nothing to distinguish it from any other house save for a rather large and flourishing rose garden. One of the few homes without a car in its driveway, either the owner are out or… by the scattered newspapers littering the front yard…the owners are away for a bit of a summer vacation. _But, why would an empty Muggle home draw me all the way here?_

Floating closer, his misty form had no sooner entered the yard than he felt the mild tingle of monitoring wards. Holding him captive for barely a moment, they vanished and let him pass without question. _Not as Muggle as I thought_ _then._ _Though, if they are willing to let me thru they must be keyed only to keep out a very specific person instead of protecting against dark magic in general._ Passing through the front door without difficulty, he looks with disgust at the homes interior. Even with the curtains drawn and the room cast in darkness, the oppressive air of 'conformity' and 'normalcy' is unmistakable. Looking around suspiciously, the once great man could see nothing even remotely touched by magic. _Useless Muggles probably don't even know what they have. The wards must have been a fluke, nothing magical could survive in this… lifeless… an environment for long. _

Not seeing anything remotely magical, the bodiless form focused more closely on the pull that had first drawn him and found that it was drawing him towards the upper floor. Following it, he found himself passing a parents lace-filled bedroom with way too much pink and a child's room all but overflowing with broken games and obviously mistreated toys. It was at the end of the hall that he actually found his destination.

_Dead bolts. Key locks. Chains?! What could a Muggle have that would possibly require that level of security? With a witch or wizard, there are plenty of things that could need to be locked away; but in a Muggle home like this, the only thing that would require that many locks is an extremely large and strong pet… or a person held prisoner_.

Letting his anger strengthen him, the once evil Lord tried to pass thru the door and was instantly frozen by a much stronger set of wards. Held half inside the door and half in the hall, he was surprised to feel the wards not only release him but also draw him deeper into the room. Seeing what the room contained, he instantly understood why.

Lying limply on what seemed little more than an old pile of rags, the huddled form of a child was just visible. A wizard child judging by the feel of him. Part of why he was drawn here was now obvious; the child's own magic must have called him. However, the greater question was why HE had been called rather than whoever had clearly taught the child at least some control over his gift. _His magic should have drawn someone he trusts to help him, why would he possibly trust me? _

Moving slowly closer, he looked at the child more closely. Dark bruises and dried blood all but hid the unnatural paleness of the boy's skin. Dark hair formed a wild mass of tangled locks, dried blood yet again making unclear the natural color. The too thin rag that barely covered him did nothing to hide the prominent ribs and sunken stomach.

Remembering the empty carport outside, he grew even more enraged. Whoever was in charge of this child had clearly planned for him to die while they were away on holiday. Someone had intentionally sealed the child into this room with the plan that he would never live to see the outside of it.

Moving even closer, hoping to get some clue as to why the child had drawn him, of all possible people, to his side; he suddenly knew what it was to feel his non-existent heart stop. Lying before him, seemingly more dead than alive, was Harry The-Boy-Who-Finally-Looked-Ready-To-Die Potter. Above sunken eyelids and numerous cuts, scrapes, and scratches, barely visible between the bruises and blood, shone the unmistakable lightning bolt scar. Without his brave mask and forceful magic, his fated rival was just a small boy lying on the old pallet that would soon be his deathbed.

Suddenly noticing movement, he slid out of sight but continued to closely watch Potter's face. First there was a slight twitch abound the mouth. Then, a rapid movement beneath his eyelids. While physically weak, the boy was apparently not as unconscious as he had thought. Slowly, a pleased smile began to form on dry and bloody lips. With an uncontrolled 'flop', the boys head fell limply to the side and now faced the far window and wall. Feeling the level of magic in the room begin to rise drastically, the silent observer stared at the same spot the boy now faced.

Hearing a distant clock chime the midnight hour, he gasped at a swirl of magical energy forming in front of him.

**Part 3**

**July 31,**

**12:00 AM**

Seeing the mental image before him begin to glow with magic, the now excited child decided it was time to give his friend a physical form. Ignoring the small skeptical part of himself that sounded suspiciously like Hermione, he told himself that what he was doing was possible. Surviving the killing curse was impossible, yet he did it. Defeating Voldemort was impossible, yet he'd done it three already. Creating a person out of a mental image might be impossible to others, but he was about to die and he refused to do so without his would-have-been friend beside him.

Letting his head fall to the side, and ignoring the lance of pain that filled his head at the movement, he let his body go completely limp as he used every ounce of energy to create is friend. Hearing a distant clock strike 12, he mirthlessly added his birthday wish to his work. _"Please let my only friend be real."_ Feeling a tingly sensation wash over him as he said the words, he took it as a good sign and focused even more. Finding another pool of magic that he didn't even know he possessed, the boy smiled weakly and poured it into his creation.

Starring in delight, he studied the vaguely human form taking shape in his room. As he focused on the head, dark hair began to grow and defined cheekbones to form. A Romanesque nose and long neck grew to make the form more recognizable. A modern style Slytherin robe draped the body. Without knowing what exactly he was doing, the child knew that he was also adding the necessary bones and organs beneath the barely visible white dress shirt. The cuffs of dark tailored pants were all that was visible of the forms legs, yet again the child knew that bone, muscle, and flesh were perfectly formed beneath the clothing. Polished designer shoes, the kind he himself had always dreamt of owning, shined beneath the perfectly tailed hemlines. To the fingers, he added calluses; as Head Boy, his friend would have spent a lot of time writing. To the unseen left wrist, he added a twin to his own wand. Remembering that Tom's wand was similar to his own, he decided that it should serve as another bond between them. With another tingling rush of power, he suddenly knew to add scars and freckles he had never seen or imagined, yet felt with complete certainty belong on his friend. Staring at the perfectly created person before him, he knew that all that was left was to have his friend open his eyes and smile.

He didn't let the eyes open, though. He could never hope the get the eyes just right. Sure, he had perfectly formed the closed lids. The eyebrows were expertly arched and each eyelash was perfectly formed. He could even get the eye color correct. He sometimes thought that it might seem strange just how well he remembered the color of his enemy's eyes.

Nevertheless, he knew he could never get the eyes right because he could never hope to add all of their depth. Tom's eyes had been like bottomless pools. Incredible strength had shone brightly, while a helpless vulnerability had been visible if you looked deep enough. Amazing knowledge had reflected clearly the intelligence no one could deny, but a desperate confusion was clear if you looked beneath the book-taught facts. He understood Tom's need for a mask; he had worn his own for as long as he could remember; but he knew he could never do justice to the beauty of his friend's eyes. So, forming perfectly colors eyes, he still left the lids closed so that he wouldn't be faced with the 'emptiness' of knowing that his friends body was there but the spark that made him 'TOM' wasn't.

Feeling a painful spasm hit his lower back; he fought to breathe evenly and desperately tried to keep from biting through his lip. Gasping for breath as it finally ended, he knew he was about to pass out again. "Hi, Tom" He whispered hoarsely while feeling his mind begin to turn fuzzy. "Missed you." As his eyes begin to drop, knowing that his magic would at least keep the form long enough for him to wake and finish saying good-bye, he relaxed and let himself slip into the beckoning darkness with a final, "Stay here".

With his last bit of awareness, he wondered if he had really just seen his friends eyes open and stare at him before smiling.

**Part 4**

**July 31,**

**12:15 AM**

The essence of what was once Tom Riddle had experienced a lot of things that would have shocked lesser men. Discovering that he was a powerful wizard instead of a weak orphan had surprised but not really shocked him. Being the only 'half-blood' in the pureblood haven of Slytherin had honored him even as he was only somewhat startled. Discovering that a prophesy had predicted his destruction has been unsettling but not overly so. Few things could truly shock a being as experienced and steeped in magic as he had become. Standing in a dark and confining room, the weak body of a tortured child dying at his feet, it suddenly took all of his vaulted composure not to scream and flee.

Watching in shock, he could feel the non-existent hairs on his arms rise as the room filled with an almost tangible air of Magic. Perfectly still, not wanting to risk upsetting whatever spell was taking place; he was amazing to see the outline of a person begin to form.

"Please let my friend become real." Hearing the whispered and clearly desperate plea, he glanced toward the boy.

His pale face was set in a mask of concentration. Small beads of sweat ran over dried blood and mixed to cause new red trails down what little unmarked skin there was. _Why was he wishing for a friend to be 'real'? Weren't all of them that way already? Why had he drawn his enemy to watch him die instead of calling someone to save him? By Merlin, why am I even here in the first place? It couldn't be a Death Eater plan because none of them would have thought to use a Muggle home. Even if one of them did, they would have at least cast a ward to restrain any magic the boy might try to use. Why wasn't the boy angry or at least trying to escape? Why did he seem almost peacefully resigned to his own death? _

_What was going on?!_

**FLASH**

Blinking away the afterglow of a yellow-green light, he was shocked to see what the boy had created. Before him was a rapidly defining body. The height alone let him know that the person was around the boys own age of thirteen. As dark hair formed, he realized it was going to be a male. As a sharp nose and long neck took shape, he began to think that the 'person' looked familiar. As a Slytherin robe suddenly draped the 'boys' hidden body, he had an impossible idea that he knew who the person was. Starched shirt cuffs, well-hemmed pants, and the tips of highly polished shoes showed that the body beneath the robe was being formed even if still mostly hidden. Seeing a shimmer surround the forms fingers, he moved closer and almost laughed when he realized that it had the calluses common to all who wrote too long with a quill. Another frighteningly strong burst of magic confused him for a moment but, bent near the hands as he was, he was only mildly surprised to see the outline of a wand holster now show through beneath a sleeve. Standing up, he knew he couldn't possibly deny it any more.

For some reason the boy whose parents he had killed and who was destined to destroy him had decided to recreate him own younger body. He, or rather his supposed 13-year-old self, was the friend this dying boy had tried to recreate. _At least this explains why I felt drawn here. He must have felt the similarities between us after all and decided that I would have been a good friend. He's probably right too, by the looks of it we have even more in common that I thought and, both clearly alone, we would likely have both grown to be better an 'evil psycho', as a Muggleborn once called me, and a 'self-righteous, conceited brat', as Severus once referred to Potter. It's too bad I'm already dead and he'll soon be joining me. _

Staring at his younger self, he noticed that a small scar on his neck was missing. Instinctively sending out his own magic, he tried to make the necessary correction. He was shocked to feel his weak magic wrapped in a strong band of power. He quickly worked to add other unique markings (even including the set of small freckles on his left arm that he had always privately thought looked like a snake) before his help was rejected. With each added mark, he felt the magic begin to tighten around him. Instead of frightening him, though, it felt like a warm, fluffy towel wrapping around him after being chilled by a cold wet rain. Feeling it worm deeper into his own magic, he allowed it without fear. The magic painlessly sent its tendrils slipping between his thoughts and memories as though searching for new secrets to add to his younger image. He did not fear the power working in and around him though, it was giving him a chance to rebuild his own body. Even if the form vanished in a few minutes, it still allowed him to remember whom and what he was before his pain destroyed the person he was and created the monster he finally became.

Looking at the perfect replica before him, the being so frightening that even in death none were brave enough to speak his name felt his breath catch in emotion. This was who he had once been. Before the orphanage beating and rapes had worn down his compassion. Before he learned that he had living relatives who had intentionally abandoned him. Before he had been rejected by the wizarding world for trying to stop other children from suffering the same fear and pain he had been forced to endure. He had been a head boy full of such promise and potential. He had truly believed that he would be able to work and become minister, that he would find a way to never let another wizard child be abused or abandoned by muggle guardians and/or parents. He had believed that the ministry would help him; instead, it had rejected him. He was just another 'mud-blood' to them, a scheming Slytherin that couldn't be trusted. He didn't have the money to make himself noticeable nor the family name to make himself memorable. He had been just another no one, another fool who believed that work would eventually pay off. He had thought that, once outside the spying eyes of Dumbles, he would be able to turn a new leaf and make a positive name for himself without the suspicion he had known since the moment he first donned a green and silver badge. All his good intentions and righteous dreams had been destroyed and, when he had been penniless and Dumbles still refused to hire him, he had given up on foolish ideas like 'hope', 'safety', and 'compassion' and had let every negative idea he had ever rejected as cruel and crazy finally take over his mind. Now though, after years as a spirit had given him ample time to reflect and reconsider the decisions and directions he had taken in his life, he stood looking at the ambitions yet mostly innocent child he had once been.

With the magic still sliding through this mind and the sense of overwhelming 'anticipation' hanging heavy in the air, he nearly jumped when he heard a quiet voice speak from behind him. "Hi, Tom." Hearing the weak whisper that was painful even to listen to, he half turned to look at the fever flushed boy staring at his image. "Missed you" The next whisper was even weaker and it was obvious that the boy wouldn't be aware much longer. Eyes sliding shut, the small form seemed to stay focused on the 'friend' now standing before him. "Stay here" Even as that strangely strong declaration seemed to echo around the room, the magic that had never stopped building finally took action.

As though pulled by a portkey, a sudden jerking sensation seemed to focus on what had once been his heart. Too startled to react, let alone fight, he barely had time register the overwhelming rush of feeling before he was suddenly trapped inside something. He was weighted down. His limbs felt heavy and slow. He could feel an odd rhythmic pounding. He was blind. He could feel…

Snapping open dark eyes, the most feared Dark Lord in existence stood in shock. He was alive. He wasn't a spirit. He wasn't a parasite leaching strength from a stuttering fool. He wasn't a formless 'thing' anymore.

_I am ALIVE!_

Looking at the small boy who had once again done the impossible, the now 13-year-old Tom, best friend of Harry Potter, smiled.


End file.
